


you felt shelter somewhere in me/i find great comfort in you

by wherelovershavewings



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Boners, Domestic Nudity, F/M, Femdom, Gen, Pining, TLC, content warnings found in chapter summaries!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherelovershavewings/pseuds/wherelovershavewings
Summary: series of one-shots about a bratty prince-regent and his maid/bodyguard/amazonian... person?content warning: a lot of dumb-assery! I fact-check nothing. we die like men. i'm posting it here purely for formatting reasons; thank you for your understanding.work title: mountain goats - riches and wonders
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. tied up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bobby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobby/gifts).



As much as he generally enjoys being tied up, a man can only be kidnapped so often before it gets old. 

The cellar is dank, cloaked in half-shadow, and the cold stone floor he sits on has long seeped through the backs of his legs, rendering him cramped and rather annoyed. His arms are secured above him to the wall, the rough hemp chafing his wrists raw, the upward angle allowing very little blood flow. She was late. He needs a bath. Just as he is pondering all of the wonderful punishments he could sentence his captors to, there comes a tell-tale thud above him. Then, a second one, solid enough to make gypsum dust flake down from the ceiling above. 

Ah, yes, about time. The floor isn't nearly thin enough to make out any detail as to what was happening upstairs, but it sounds rather unpleasant indeed. 

Doing his best to move his stiff limbs, he manages to turn his hapless sprawl into a more dramatic lean. Legs hitched to the side, torso arched. If only the damned lighting was more flattering. Just as he’s figuring out how to shake his hair over his shoulder in a more debonair manner, the cellar door comes crashing down, followed by heavy, hurried footsteps. 

"My liege!" She calls out, her common wear showing flecks of blood as she rushes to him. He lets his face lean into the welcome warmth of her palm as she leans down and checks him over for injuries, touching his chest through the thin fabric of his tunic. The day is already starting to look a lot better. "Let's get you out of here," she murmurs, drawing a knife from her skirts and thoughtlessly straddling his lap, leaning up close to reach the twine around his arms above him, the movement bringing her soft chest flush with his face. Moreover, as numb as his arms are, it becomes evident that the circulation in the rest of his body works perfectly fine. Bless his small size, and bless her many layers, that she might not notice. 

She cradles his hands, gently touching the raw skin of his wrists to assess the damage. He knows it’s not more than a rope burn. He knows that she’ll dote over him anyway. He also knows that he does not mind this. 

Standing proves to be tricky, the change in position causing all his limbs to prick and shake, and he falters but a step before she’s pulled him close, easily sweeping his legs from under him. He’s half aware of her talking about food and a bath, but she’s the most comfortable surface he’s leaned against for the past forty-eight hours, so he lets her steady heartbeat lull him to sleep. 

He’s mostly awake by the time she muscles them into his quarters, using an awkward kick to operate the door handle. There’s not a lot of finesse there, and he smiles to himself. Food has already been brought in, and she gently lowers him into his chair, allowing him to eat as she sets to taking off his boots and preparing a basin of water. 

The food is delicious; simple, but hearty and filling. There’s warm bread, with soft salted butter for dipping, a roast chicken leg, and a peach that has been meticulously pitted, peeled and sliced, a dainty two-pronged fork sticking into one of the parts of rosy flesh. There’s a crystalline goblet filled with lime flower water, and he slowly drinks as the maid putters around. 

He notices she’s slower in preparing his toiletries than usual, an obvious ploy to ensure he eats as much as possible before she puts him to bed, and he smiles again, spearing another part of the peach onto his fork. 


	2. floral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pining, casual semi-nudity, voyeurism, Being Hot™

The garden is in full bloom again, which is apparently enough reason for His Royal Highness to be dragged from his chambers to get some fresh air. He’s managed to insist on taking his files to continue working, but his concentration is failing him at the moment. The maid has stripped down to her underclothes, and for the last ten minutes, he’s done nothing but stare. There’s been a great spread of dandelion fluff this season, which is apparently enough of an issue that his personal bodyguard-slash-maid-slash… whatever, has been asked to help pull the weeds. 

Personally, he quite likes the yellow things. The rabbits are certainly fond of them, though the visiting dignitaries are not. There’s a certain standard set for everything in and around the palace, including the manicuring of his lawn. Which brings him back to his current issue; ah yes, the maid, in a sleeveless, low-cut tunic and some astoundingly short breeches, attacking the ground with a shovel and her bare hands. She’s determined, to be sure, the exertion combined with the late morning heat enough to put a beading of sweat on her flushed face and neck. 

He takes one of his lace gloves off with his teeth, using the free hand to put a pastry in his mouth. Licking the cream from his thumb, he watches her wipe at her face, her muddy hand only making it more filthy. The short crop of golden curls has turned brown with her sweat, her shins and arms completely covered in dirt. He swallows hard, oddly aroused and endeared at the same time, and clenches his jaw in an effort to get back to his work. There’s requests from foreign royals, expansions on the trading routes with the local fiefdoms to be sifted through, a truly dreadful letter to respond to from his second cousin twice-removed, always badgering him in the most roundabout, boring ways about tax exemption or whichever undeserved privilege he’d have his mind on this month. Paperwork on its own wasn’t too bad. Neither was diplomacy. But the two *combined* were a headache and a half. A simple, “Dear cousin, go fuck yourself,” was neither appreciated nor tolerated, and so he sets to writing. 

He’s finally tucked away the last of his documents when he hears a splash. The maid, having evidently finished her work, has started cleaning herself. In the royal palace fountains. Generally not an uncommon occurrence for staff working in and around the gardens, of course, but those generally wore a few more layers of clothing. Having fully seated herself inside of the marbled half-moon structure attached to the eastern wall, she’s begun scrubbing her arms clean while she lets her lower half soak off the dirt. From his raised veranda, he has a direct view of the basin, of how the water turns temporarily murky before being washed clear again by the continuous stream. The dirty white cotton of her tunic is completely soaked, sticking to the round curve of her stomach, the near-translucent fabric showing the shadow of a dusky nipple. There’s a faint voice in his head that tells him that he shouldn’t be staring, and he blinks hard as he turns away, ready to dismiss any staff standing nearby with half as many indecent thoughts as him, but when he looks around, everyone has already left. Huh. How strange. 

She’s clambered out of the fountain, heading towards him as rivulets of water stream down her neck, between the dip of her chest, the dimples in her broad thighs. He feels his cock throb hot underneath his gown while she looks at him, nonplussed. 

“My prince, are you sunburned?” she asks, putting her water-cooled hand to his hot forehead. “Allow me to fetch a compress,” she says, turning away to head to the kitchens, still clad in her underthings. 

The moment is broken, and he slumps in relief. 


	3. dress-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pining (you know how we do), tipsy conversations, wingmanning from a bg character, allussions made towards mild bondage/shibari fantasies, mentions of sexual thoughts

Looking back, she should’ve known there was to be trouble. It simply hadn’t been clear what kind.

The Quarian ambassador had been a joy to talk to all evening. Or at least, from what she could gather; her Quari was not the best. Most dignitaries were quite reserved and stuffy, but he’d actually been decent enough to speak to the servants, and gotten more loose-lipped as the evening continued and the wine kept flowing. She laughed as he regaled her with one of his more bawdy anecdotes.

“The thing about that particular re-telling, is that many translators disagree on the describing term of the artifact in question, as the ‘cane’ in the original text was referred to as ‘caeanus,’ which we’ve known to be a, er, well. Let’s call it a rod.” She nodded slowly, sipping the expensive brew that was only available to serving staff during these types of gatherings. 

“You know, for-” and here he nodded meaningfully,- “fertillity rituals?” 

She snorted into her wine, as her companion doubled over laughing. 

He sobered a tad, looking more earnest as he asked, “does your culture not accept the use of an apparatus on a partner?” 

She was about to answer, when she heard the Prince laugh. He’d clearly been drinking, as the flush was high on his cheeks, his fair expression now ruddy with laughter. His normally tied hair was loose for the evening, cascading in copper waves over his shoulders. The blouse he’d selected for the evening, a creamy ruffled affair encrusted with pearls, had been undone three buttons, the rouleaus pulled back over their mother-of-pearl enclosures. The brat might be drunk, but he was apparently dextrous enough to undo fiddly clasps. His hand kept toying with the lace collar at his throat, and she only realised she’d been staring when her table companion cleared his throat. 

“My dear friend,” he chuckled, “you seem to be preoccupied.” 

She chugged her goblet as he dissolved into drunken giggles. 

* * *

Later that evening, when all the plastered royalty was politely being shoved into their respective carriages, her drinking friend came up to her to say her goodbyes. As they grasped each other’s forearms in goodbye, he pulled her close momentarily, speaking in a low tone, “Us Quarians are loyal to our friends, and you are one of mine.” He pulled back, shooting a momentary look at the prince before glancing back at her. “You have my aide.” 

At the time, she had been too confused and far too tipsy to understand.

Now, watching the prince unwrap his latest Quari gift, she feels like she’s starting to comprehend the situation. 

“Normally I don’t care for empty-hearted gifts to maintain good bonds with our allies, but I must say, the Quarian livery is something else entirely.” The prince is smiling, delighted, holding something that looks somehow both too flimsy for court-wear, and too complicated to use as sleeping garments. 

He turns to her. “Put it on me.”

This is it. This is how she dies. She’s faced foes in battle numerous times, without a dredge of hesitation, yet here she freezes. The blood rushes in her ears. She reaches out a hand; it does not shake. 

He turns easily, letting her reach for his neck. Gently, she gathers his hair together, draping it over his shoulder and out of the way to get to the fastenings of his tunic. His clothing is simple today, and the shift is removed soon enough, his skin pebbling despite the afternoon heat. Undoing the laces of his breeches takes some doing, as she painstakingly works the cord out of the eyelets, his deep breaths making his stomach rise and fall distractingly, the dark hair peeking out from his underwear catching the light of the chandelier overhead. She helps him step out of his breeches, seeing the outline of his cock in his smallclothes, and spares a momentary, hysterical thought to what it would be like to fit her mouth over that pretty cock, to suck him off through a barrier of satin and lace. 

She quickly shakes the thought from her head, moving over to the bed to get his new clothes. The material is like water in her hand; glittering, smooth and transparent. The garment appears to be a dress of some sort, with swathes of fabric missing to show bare skin. He raises his arms for her to put the bodice segment on him, the slit at the front ending just above his navel for her to lace shut. It's hard not to think about how nice the dark red silk cords look against his skin, how else she could put this rope to use, as she methodically weaves the material through each eyelet, pulling tighter between intervals. 

His breathing seems to quicken with each tightening of the cord, and she looks up, worried. 

"Too tight, my prince?"

"Not at all," he manages, quite softly, "it's just warm here, I suppose," he looks away. His cheeks do look rather flushed. She should probably open another window, let in some cool air. 

She quickly returns to the task at hand, tying up the laces before pressing one hand against his torso, the other holding him in place at the small of his back. Corsetry was perfectly safe, as long as it was properly bound. She gently moves along his solar plexus, pressing down with each breath inward, checking for discomfort. 

"Does this hurt?"

He just shakes his head quickly.

"Does this feel alright? She continues, pressing harder.

"Very," he manages. He really was quite red now. She helps him sit, squeezing his hand. 

"Let me get some air in here."

He nods gratefully as she moves to open the window latches.


	4. summer fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> accidental voyeurism, accidental nudity, Pining, mentions of sexual activities

She’s decided that she likes his days off the best. For one, it means she gets to sleep in a bit more than usual, and is able to get ready for the day at a much more leisurely pace. Her living quarters are sparse and small, joined to his quarters with nothing but a door between them. Her guard function requires her to be no more than a breath away from him at all times, and so she is; a steady spot of paraselene light in his orbit. She makes the bed, washes herself, gets dressed, and then goes to open the door. Every day, she tries to be quick about it, and every day, she falters for a second. The prince has a rather… particular choice in sleep wear, and with the nights getting balmier and heavier, with the sun hanging longer and brighter as the days near summer, he’s gotten in the habit of kicking off his sheets in his sleep. 

Today is the day she will not look at him. It’s quite inappropriate, and rather rude to boot. A breach of privacy. She turns the door handle with quiet care, not wanting to wake him prematurely (the man has a habit of working far too long and hard, and every second he spends resting, gives her a second of relief) and as she enters the room, her resolution immediately fails. 

Oh, but bless her eyes. Why be graced with the gift of sight only to deny looking at something so dear. She’s not a pious woman, to be sure, but in the gentle morning light streaming over his bare skin, she finds something holy. 

His fine damask sheets have been kicked off and lie crumpled at the end of the bed, as predicted. He’s cradling a pillow to his chest, his braided hair has come partially undone, and his lower half is pressed flush to the bed, his back a sinewy arch as one leg is hitched up. The negligé he put on the night before (the one  _ she  _ had to put him in, her cunt clenching at the memory of how willingly he put his arms up at her orders, the way he kept rubbing his chest to feel the satin against his skin,-) has somehow both slipped off his shoulders and managed to crawl up his thighs, the pert curve of his ass in full view. There’s a fine dusting of hair on the backs of his legs travelling all the way up to the insides of his thighs, and the bright morning sun has set them ablaze, making them look like molten glass. 

Her hands are itching to touch. There’s a particular cruelty in loving someone so dearly, so entirely, and still having to maintain a degree of distance. They’re glued at the hip, but still apart. They’ve seen each other naked, crying, screaming, bloodied and unconscious. 

And  _ yet.  _

And yet. 

And yet there is the ephemeral distance of professionality. Infinitesimal, yet infinite.

There’s a world in her head in which they are- in which they are  _ not this,  _ a world where she puts a knee up on the bed, where she trails the insides of his legs, feels the coarse hair and the sun-warmed skin. A world where the squeeze and press of her hands is answered by an approving hum, a world where he gets to wake up to her mouth on him, between him, around him. 

But that world is far and fleeting, and the unceasing sun climbs higher in the sky, and wakes him instead. She tries to look busy as he sits up with a groan, his bird-nested hair a gold-wrought crown, the straps on the negligé slipping down his fine shoulders, showing a pink nipple, a bare chest. 

Stifling a yawn, he turns to her as he says, “I’m thinking of peaches for breakfast.”

She sets to skinning the fruit, and thinks of rosy cheeks and fine hairs.


	5. hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two bros chilling in a cupboard no feet apart b/c there's no space, Woman Saves Man; no one is surprised, (man might be slightly turned on), Carrying A Man Around Like A Sack Of Potatoes: The Kink?!  
> and hiding in a closet. you get the gist. don't love this chapter but boy it's still horny. which means... it's Good

Pros of ruling a prospering country; happy citizens. Communal welfare. A care state-based ruling system that enables individuals to prosper and grow. Not a lot of coups.

Cons of ruling a prospering country; your wealth and splendor attracts the envy of nobles who wish to take your life, land and throne. 

He mulls his list over as he is carried through the underground passageway (they just took a left, so this is, section...E? He really ought to pay more attention) over the shoulder of the maiden, who is steadily trekking along. He’s pretty sure it would be faster if he walked for himself, but the moment she’d seen the crossbow bolt splinter a hole through his chamber doors, she had made a grab for him, and she’s had a vice-grip on him since. He tried to wriggle free three corridors ago, but she simply passed him the lantern and told him to behave. In truth, he’s rather enjoying being lugged around. The predicament lies more in the fact that this particular position is one he’s imagined her putting him in far too many times, involving far less clothing and a lot more, ah, hands-on contact. 

He tries to shift his hips away from her body, when he realises they’ve reached the end of the corridor. She tightens her grip on his thigh as she muscles the door open, and he does his best not to vibrate out of his skin. Think about other things. Think about bad things. Think about getting your head lopped off. Yes. He can do this. He can keep his composure. He’s the Prince Regent. The most powerful person in the kingdom. He’s in control. 

She has gently lowered him to the floor, keeping a steading hand on his shoulder as she looks around. He stretches languidly, feels something in his back pop, before scanning the room to see where she’s taken him. Panelled wood walls, sparse bed, large armoire with a great dragon carving on it. Ah yes, this must be the west wing-

He turns to her. She’s facing the door, concentrated. It looks like she’s counting something in her head. 

“We’re not doing Zeta 4.”

She’s still looking intently at the door, but there’s a small smile on her face. “Zeta 4 is easy. Practical. Low risk.”

He pinches his nose. Last time they did Zeta 4, his left leg cramped for nearly twenty minutes. 

(Afterwards, she had massaged him quite thoroughly, but, well, principle of the thing, and all.) 

He opens the armoire. Gods damned above, it’s stupidly tiny. There’s decent standing space, but it’s not particularly deep, and the furs at the back take up a good amount of room. 

He hears the faint sound of thudding boots down the hall. She turns to him, far too gleefully. 

“Do I have to?”

“You can always get stabbed to death.” 

“Lovely.”

Sighing, he gets ushered into the closet, her hand on his waist. 

She pulls the door shut, everything turning to darkness.

Three seconds.

In the room, the hidden door is slammed open. 

Two seconds.

Heavy boots on metal paving reach the room’s entrance.

One second.

Pandemonium breaks loose. 

“Don’t worry, General Orteaze will have the culprits gone in no-time,” she whispers. He tries not to shiver, her body a lot closer to him than he had anticipated, her voice rumbling low through her chest, pressed against his back, the hand on his hip squeezing comfortingly. 

Outside of the wardrobe is only chaos and the sound of weapons striking. 

It’s like they’re in a strange capsule, a microcosm floating through space, all exterior sound muffled by the thick panelled wood and heavy fur coats. 

He feels strange, still shaken from the attempt on his life, but also blanketed in that odd sense of calm that settles on him like a blanket whenever she is near him. Like a thick coating of snow, like insulation. 

He’s turned on, thinking about her damned hand gripping his thigh, and tired from the stress of the morning. His legs are so damned tired, and he did barely any walking.

She whispers again, and he tries to ignore how it shakes through him. 

“You didn’t have breakfast this morning, did you?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then he thinks. He remembers her setting out his breakfast. And then getting dressed, and the situation with the damned dignitary needing some document or other signed, and then there was-. Drat. Well. He had been quite busy. 

When he doesn’t answer, she lightly slaps his flank, clicking her tongue in admonishment. “Fool.” 

“You can’t talk to me like that, I’m royalty,” he murmurs. 

“Apologies; you’re a fool, my prince.”

“That’s better, thank you.” He shifts his weight, trying to stop his legs from falling asleep, feeling her steady and unwavering behind him. “You’re a damned monolith, you know that? I hate standing still.” 

She hums for a moment. “Lean on me.” He feels the hand on his hip move around his torso, holding him as her other hand comes to brace against the far wall of the armoire. He can distinguish the outline in the darkness, sinking into the soft fur. “I used to do a lot of guard duty; you get used to it.” 

He allows her to move him against the coats, most of his weight carried by her and the back of the closet. Her hips are flush with his ass, and the reckless part of his brain tells him that it would be an opportune moment to grind himself against her, right now, locked in this ludicrous place while outside, the royal guard takes care of some ruffians, but he tamps down on the evil little voice, and holds still. 


	6. arctic travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> domestic nudity, pining on both sides, absolute zero resolving of aforementioned pining, huddling for warmth

The frost of the Caveback Passage was more biting than he remembered. Visiting his neighbouring allies was always a delight, a rare chance to get out of the castle and onto the open road, no prying eyes or pushy advisors. Just him and the vast open sky. 

There was a loud grunting behind him, followed by the sound of something hard hitting a wooden beam. 

Ah, yes. She was here too, of course. She was always next to him, behind him, around him… it was probably odd how he didn’t mind it, not the way he sometimes minded the other staff. There were days when he got a certain way, too many things inside him, his body brimming with tension and thoughts, where he could barely stand to look at people, let alone hear them speak. On those days, he’d get back to his quarters, and she’d be there (she was always next to him, behind him, around him…) but rather than feeling stifled, he felt… righted. Like the whole world would be at an odd angle, and with one swift kick she’d get everything to settle back into place. He thought about the hazy summer days, where he’d open the windows of his cool quarters, and the heat from outside would envelop him like a dense wall of heat. All around him, invisible. 

He shivers. Must be the cold. 

The sledding dogs have long stopped trying to cajole him into playing with them, and have settled for the night beneath the lean-to the maid has strung up. She’s let him sit by the fire with an extra serving of stew while she’s reinforcing the beams on the tent. The sun has started to set rapidly, and as quickly as the cold is setting in, he wants to stay out as long as possible. The view is beyond stunning. The low light is hitting the snow at such an angle that the whole forest floor seems to be covered in shards of opal. The giant crodule trees, higher than a church tower and blacker than coal, creak with the onset of the cold, as the purple sap in their veins starts to harden and expand. Plenty of the trees have cracked open in previous nights, the small tears in their bark dripping spears of amethyst into the white snow below. 

He’s startled from his reverie by a large gloved hand landing on his shoulder. 

“We should get inside, my prince.”

He smiles. At court, the titles feel like a barrier.

Your Highness. Your Majesty.

But when it’s just the two of them, they almost feel like an endearment. A pet name. 

My prince. My liege. My Lord. _Possessive._

There were plenty of nights where he’d lie awake at night, thinking about what other ways he could belong to her. 

He stumbles as he gets up, the cold having seeped into his knees, and she laughs easily as she catches him against her front, her wide arm pressing into his lower back, steadying him without a thought. Again, he shivers. 

"We'll get you heated up, my Lord. Not to worry." 

Damned beyond, why must she be so earnest about it. She's got that look in her eye that says she'll do whatever she has to, to make him feel well. He's heated up alright. 

The inside of the tent is cozy, the many layers of felt doing a decent job of keeping in warmth. There's two sleeping mats, and a wooden travel chest that holds their equipment. She's placed the gas lantern atop it, and turns to him to undress him for bed. The cold demands layers, and he's decked out in a lot of them. 

They fall into a rhythm as she peels him out of them, one by one, a repetitive dance they've swayed a thousand times before. Overcoat. Boots. Coat. Vest. Trousers. Sweater. Flannel. She keeps him in his tights, shirt, and double layer of socks, and tucks him in with a hot stone she'd heated in the fire outside. He tries not to look as she undresses, the dim shadow of her movements dancing against the back of his eyelids, and he peeks through his eyelashes to watch her fold her clothes. The wool leggings look soft around her broad legs. The roundness of her stomach and the curve of her ample chest underneath the shift both make him blush and envy her natural insulation. His body, graceful and lean as it may be, is not built for this weather, and he can already feel his toes and fingers get bitten by the chill night air. As she settles into her bed and turns off the lamp, he thinks about what it would feel like, to warm his cold fingers between her soft thighs, and tries to sleep. Outside, the trees creak and groan. 

* * *

In the night, he wakes. It takes him a second to register his surroundings. He's kicked off his blankets in the night, his internal clock still ticking with the summer schedule back home, but he's not cold. Then he hears it. The maid, metres away from him, is shivering up a storm. He moves in the dark, carefully touching around the lantern, shielding its frame with a hand as he turns it on low to avoid startling her. He'll put some of his coverings on her. He feels a little ember of pride at that, burning away in his chest. She'll be so grateful, and tell him he's done a good job. It will be quite wonderful. 

Moving proves difficult, as his body has gotten really quite stiff through the night. He must've slept in an awkward position. 

The sheeps’ wool is heavy in his hands, thickly twined yarn in a tight knit, dyed a warm burnt orange that looks like roiling red in the muted light. As he moves towards her, he stumbles. Next thing he knows, there’s a knife at his throat. 

“Ah, you’re awake, very good.”

She drops the knife with a flash of guilt in her eyes, immediately putting a hand at his throat. Her palm is hot in the winter night air. Having assessed that his throat is fine, she goes to move away, only to halt, looking at him quizzically. 

“You’re cold.” 

He takes a beat. “No,” he says slowly, “you are.” 

“Do I feel cold to you?”

He tries to concentrate on an answer. It’s proving to be quite hard. She’s got both hands on his neck, one intermittently touching his face, and he’s trying to decide whether he should wake her more often, if it means that she’ll touch him like this. 

She uses a flat hand to tap him lightly on the cheek. 

“Concentrate.” She moves over, reaching a hand out to one of his feet, and grimaces. 

“Do you feel this?” She’s prodding his big toe. He sees her prod his big toe. 

He’s reminded of a time when a molar had to be extracted when he was young, and the physician had administered poppy’s milk. A slight sensation, but dull, barely there. This should probably worry him, but he finds himself oddly calm. He then tries to muster some anxiety over his lax response, but again, serenity and void. 

He just gives her a look. “Is this hypothermia?”

She curses softly for a moment. 

“Alright.” Training her eyes on the blanket on the floor, he’s sure she’ll start burning through it with her gaze at any moment. 

She doesn’t look at him when she says, 

“Lay down on my cot. I need to undress you.” 

He’d always hoped that if the day were to come where she’d say this, it’d be a bit more romantic, but alas, beggars can’t be choosers.

He lays down in the spot she has vacated, but gets confused when she tucks him in again, adding his own blankets to her stack, but understanding quickly dawns on him when she gets up and starts undressing. 

Curse the gods. Curse the sea, and the air, and the damned frozen dirt they pitched their fucking tent on. There is a Beyond where his ancestors dwell, and he can hear them laughing at him in chorus right fucking now. He spares a hysterical thought to thank the frost in his bones, that he might not heinously embarrass himself. There is no way in this world that he could get aroused right now, despite the very beautiful, very naked woman in front of him. 

He squeezes his eyes shut on a reflex as she straddles him, and tries not to focus on the heat of her core against his bare abdomen as she unbuttons his undershirt. She takes each of his hands in turn, gently holding it as she works the button out of the cuff, and he tenses his jaw to avoid screaming in frustration. This isn’t how it ought to be. This isn’t how this should go. He doesn’t want her intimacy out of obedience, or as a chore. He wants her to want him, and the methodical ministrations of her kindness are nearly enough to bring him to tears. 

He shudders as she draws him close to her in a sitting position, a hand at his back to allow her to take off his top, and he’s ready to blame it on his undercooled state when she catches his eye. 

“My apologies. This must be uncomfortable for you.” She looks dejected, of all things, leaving him feeling oddly wrong-footed. 

“It’s quite alright,” he says, placing a tentative hand above her knee, giving it an awkward pat. 

“Thank you. For taking care of me.” 

“It’s what I’m here for,” she says, and though he believes her, it’s as if she’s saying something else entirely. 

Her hair is still mussed from sleep, and her chest grazes his as she moves lower to take off his leggings, sliding a broad hand inside the waistband to move it down his legs. He shudders again. Definitely the cold. Nothing else.

Once finished, she moves back up, splaying herself atop him in a way that, in any other situation, would make him spontaneously combust. She positions his arms so that his hands are trapped between their bodies, the soft give of her stomach pressing into him. He quells the evil voice in his head that’s yelling about the way the hard buds of her nipples are pushed against him, and tries to relax as her arms come up to frame his shoulders, tucking his face against the hot curve of her neck. 

He feels, more than hears her voice, as she murmurs, “You really should stop shoving down your sheets.”

“Can’t help it. I do it in my sleep.” 

She stifles a yawn into the pillow below her. “Ought to tie your hands together. Rig ‘em to the headboard.” 

Instead of saying what he wants to say,– which is something along the lines of “yes” and “please” and a litany of “fuck” –he manages a laugh. 

“I’m pretty sure that kind of a suggestion falls under ‘high treason.’” 

She laughs, which is both very lovely and very bad, as it makes her whole weight shake slightly against him in a way that has no right to feel as good as it does. 

“Sleep, dear prince. The cold makes you say silly things.” 

_ You make me say silly things _ , he doesn’t say, and says, “Good night,” instead. 

He must be imagining it, but as he’s drifting off to sleep, he’s sure that he feels the press of a kiss against his temple. 


	7. i learn foreign and exotic terms of endearment by which to address you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning: explicit sexual content; two folks wanking each other off. no penetration (for now) but a lot of explicit sexual talk + i really gotta stress, they do the do and they come.  
> also feelings happen but they always do don't they

Being back home has its perks. His feather-down bed. The full scope of his wardrobe. Fresh fruits. Reduced risk of freezing to death. 

He watches the maid bustle around from his vantage point from the bed. 

‘Flashes of intense, frustrating arousal’ seem to still pose an issue, though. 

The events that transpired a fortnight ago, back at the Caveback Passage, are still fresh in his mind, and it seems that his brain (and other parts of his body) aren’t keen on letting him forget what she felt like, her soft weight pressing him down onto a cot as she held him in her arms. This morning, when she woke him for breakfast, she gently tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, and his wretched body decided that that singular tender act was sensuous enough to be cause for a throbbing erection. He made it clear to her that he’d quite like to take his breakfast in his bed, instead. 

It would be all quite dandy if it was a physical thing. A brief, silly obsession with her physique. A craving of the flesh after a dry spell. But the period of time this  _ interest  _ has lasted, combined with the other, non-salacious thoughts he’s had about her, well. 

There’s a recurring one that hits him from time to time. It doesn’t have a clear narrative, but it involves them, in the garden’s hedge maze, with her astride him, his breeches undone as she jacks him off. In the daydream, he tries to focus on the way her mouth would feel on his, the rough of her calloused hands against his cock, the grass stains on her knees. But other thoughts keep leaking in, like sunlight through a tree canopy. The shape of her smile pressed against his neck. The tender look in her eyes, the self-satisfied smirk she’d wear as she touches him. In the dream, he breathes secrets into her mouth, saying things he’s still scared to think, and every time, it snaps him out of it, efficiently replacing the feeling of hazy arousal with a vague sense of unease. 

He tries to think back to when it all started, and finds himself growing embarrassed when he’s running out of fingers to count the months.

“My Lord?” He tries his best not to startle. He doesn’t succeed.

“Yes, yes, my morning correspondence, you’re right.” 

He scrubs a hand over his face. She’s already pulling his letters out of the pocket of her apron. At court, when surrounded by his advisors, he gets his letters delivered on a golden tray, delicately presented to him with a curtsy. When it’s just the two of them, they’re pulled from whatever pocket she has on her, often creased, sometimes stained. Today’s mail has a coating of flour on it, and one scroll has become slightly waterlogged. His eyes land on the purple seal, another letter from the prince of Daltheeri. 

Caspian has been his fast friend for nearly a decade, and their correspondence has grown more frequent over the last two years, the established trading route giving them an excuse to write to each other more frequently. His letters are always a welcome distraction from the political drivel he has to stomach each morning alongside his breakfast, the writing often veering off into long rants about his handsome betrothed. The fool had finally gathered enough bravery to formally court the ruler of one of his local counties, an individual he’d long carried affection for, so most of his letters have taken on a particularly flowery tone ever since. 

He feels his face stretch into a smile as he goes to break the seal.

“Another letter from the Daltheeri prince?”

He hums a distracted affirmation, trying to tear the vellum without ripping the letter inside. 

“He seems to be very dear to you.” 

He gives another hum. But damned, why is that paper so thin, it’s always such a trick to grab it. Nobles and their fancy stationery. They really ought to invest in some sensible cardstock, or something. 

“He’s my oldest friend, of course I care greatly for him.” 

“Do you intend to court him?” 

The laugh that’s startled out of him makes him drop the letter. He finally looks up at her. She’s got her head high, but keeps looking over his shoulder. He straightens. 

“I have no such intentions. Caspian recently initiated a courtship with a countryman of his. They’ll be wed before the year is out.” 

“Ah.” Her shoulders relax a fraction. “I’m sorry, my Lord.” 

He goes to say something, but halts himself. Her response sours in his gut. Suddenly, he feels overwhelmingly tired. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you?” 

She gives him a blank look. “My Lord?” 

“Are you sorry?” 

“Well, yes-” 

“Why?” he asks sharply, looking up at her. Surely she knows. He’s a damned open book, constantly flushing, stuttering and making a fool of himself. She must know. Gods above, he’s so done with this bullshit.

Her face looks pinched as she says, “I had thought, perhaps, there was someone-”

He holds a hand up to silence her. She does. He hates it, hates this, the dismissive condescension he turns to when he starts to falter, the only way he knows how to shield himself, maintain a barrier between-

He isn’t sure what he’s hiding from, anymore. 

He looks at the sheets covering his lap. The damask brocade is woven with fine, colourful vines, blossoming their various blooms across the bed. He looks at his hands, picking at a cuticle as he says, 

“The matter I am about to discuss with you, will change your mind about the nature of your employment here. I want you to know that you are guaranteed compensation and a stable position, and there will be no penalty if you choose to dismiss me.” 

She’s taken a step closer to the bed, but something in his body language must tell her to halt, as she holds her tongue. He continues,

“The crux of the matter is that I have found myself harbouring a number of feelings towards you that, given the nature of our relationship, are rather improper and unprofessional. I had hoped to find that my-” he stumbles, feeling himself flush to the roots of his hair, “-my  _ desires  _ would wane over time, but as such, they have not. I do not wish to carry on in a farcical manner, as that would be improper.” 

He looks at his hands, waiting for her to say something. A second passes, then another. After counting five full ones, he dares to look up at her. 

She looks- well, she doesn’t look angry, which he’s rather relieved about. Her lips are pursed, her eyes staring at empty space, her eyebrows creased in a way as if she’s trying to calculate the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow.

She looks at him. “My liege, do you-.” She stops. Closes her mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. “You mean to tell me that you like me?”

He hides behind his hands, embarrassment seeping into hysterics as he goes, “Gods beyond, woman, I  _ love  _ you! Can you-”

There’s a mouth on his, and for a moment, his world is narrowed down to a press of wet heat. 

He’s too surprised to properly reciprocate before she pulls back, looking at her with a dazed expression as she gently holds his face with one hand. 

“Was that alright?” she says, her breath fanning against his flushed face. 

He can only nod dumbly. 

A slow smile spreads across her face, looking for all the world like she’s the cat that got the canary. 

“I love you too,” she whispers, the hand on his face moving up to gently stroke his temple, the curve of his eyebrow. 

“That’s quite good,” he manages. He’s pretty sure his brain is melting. 

Her grin just broadens, her other hand moving to fist in his tunic. “I’d like to kiss you again, is that okay?” 

He’s dead. He’s going to die. His poor, silly heart is going to beat out of his chest. He nods quickly. 

She takes a moment to climb onto the bed, situating herself comfortably astride his lap, their height difference all the more emphasized as she has to lean down to meet his mouth once more, the hand at his jaw now sliding to cradle his head tenderly, her fingers gently digging into his scalp. She kisses him slow, careful, like he’s something precious, like he might burst; she’s not wrong. His chest feels tighter than it’s ever been. He’s not sure if he’s breathing. She’s gentled her grip on his tunic, simply keeping a hold of the neckline, her hand resting curled against his sternum, and he’s sure it’s the only thing that keeps him from floating away. He’s overwhelmed with the sensation of her, her weight in his lap, though covered by the sheets, is enough to make his heart beat out of his chest. His hands are trembling, clutching at the hem of her dress, unable to do much else than shake apart in her arms as she licks into his mouth with practised ease. 

Her hands move through his hair, scratch at his nape, press at his neck as if he’s a wild beast that needs to be gentled. 

She moves back a hair’s breadth. “My liege,” she says quietly, looks him in the eye, “my love,” like an oath, a promise bitten into his mouth. 

He realises he’s gasping. “Please,” he says, not sure what he’s asking for, though she seems to understand well enough, shifting aside so she can join him under the sheets. The tunic he’s worn to bed is a simple thing, for once, a large shapeless shift with a wide collar, the hem long enough that it usually allows for some modesty, but the outline of his arousal is unmistakable. Her shoulders seem to straighten at that, a small smile playing on her face.

He raises an eyebrow, trying not to blush under her scrutiny as he shifts. “Are you proud of yourself?” 

Her cheeks pink, but she maintains eye contact as she moves the neck of his tunic lower, moving in to press a line of kisses from his sternum to his neck. “Very.”

Her hands are at his waist, rubbing a soothing pattern through his shirt as she presses him down into the sheets, sucking at his neck. Her unruly blonde hair is soft between his fingers, an excellent way to encourage her to continue mouthing at his collarbone. He tries not to rut against her, his hips shaking with the effort. 

She trails a finger down to his bare thigh, let’s it circle there a few times, before trailing her hand back upwards, rucking up his shift as she goes. 

“Oh my god,” he gasps, over-sensitive and overwhelmed. 

Detaching herself from his neck, she looms over him, looking him straight in the eye as she says, “I’d like to fuck you,” announcing it like she’s sharing her dinner plans, like it’s something mundane and sensible, instead of something that makes his brain short out.

_ “Oh my god,” _ he manages again, for emphasis. He’d like to be more eloquent in this moment, but it’s currently proving rather difficult. 

She continues in the same earnest tone. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, we can continue kissing, or-”

“-Don’t you dare stop!” He balks, outrage and frustration making him pull her back, the surprise enough to make her topple back down on top of him. She catches herself, her arms bracing around his head. She’s moved between his legs, nestled comfortably against him. He’s holding her face, pressing kiss after kiss against the amused curve of her mouth, muttering his grievances. 

“Can’t believe you’d make me wait longer,-” kiss,- “after all this time,-” kiss,- “I’ve wanted this for ages,-” kiss.

She’s chuckling against his mouth, moving her hands back to his side, trying to calm him down, only smiling wider when he continues his restless moving and pawing at her. Part of him feels like he ought to be embarrassed, but it’s clear she likes it, the fondness creasing her eyes as she nods her approval when he asks to touch her chest. The front of her dress is woven shut with a cotton ribbon that has to be worked through a series of eyelets, and it proves to be quite difficult, as she’s tracing her hands up the inside of his thighs, her thumbs massaging the crease where his legs meet his hip, inches away from his aching cock. 

He keeps fumbling the cord whenever she moves her hands closer, but she keeps smiling encouragingly, telling him to continue. He’s shaking with it, trying his damnedest to focus on the task at hand, trying to ignore the hands inching closer towards his cock. 

He pulls the cord free, moves his hands between her naked shoulder and the layer of cloth to move her bodice back, helps her pull her arms out of the sleeves. Her breasts are warm and heavy in his hands, and she stills her movements when he reaches up to press a kiss at the crest of the valley between them, mouthing at the soft skin. He’s not sure why he feels so moved; he’s seen naked women before. He’s seen  _ her  _ naked before. He understands the arousal and the urge, but there’s a gravity to all of it that makes his breath come out slow and heavy. It’s like they’re back on that mountain pass again, the air thin between them. 

She cradles the back of his head with one hand, brings him close for a deep kiss, as the other moves to grasp his cock, and he moans, low, in her mouth. 

Her hand fists tightly at his base, keeping a firm pressure as she jacks him off, measured and even, not allowing him the privilege to fuck up into her fist. She swallows his needy whine as she continues to pull off his leaking cock, the slick allowing an easier glide into her fist. 

He moves his hands from her chest, rucks up her skirts to get at her cunt. Noticing his movements, she spreads her legs wider as she kneels over him on the mattress, allowing him easier access. He lets himself have a few joyful moments of grabbing her soft thighs, feeling out the little divots and dimples in the strong flesh, kneading her ass with slow, hungry fingers. The more he touches her, the more he becomes aware of her mass, her volume, the great weight of her. He’s not blind, he knows that she’s far larger than he is, he’s  _ seen  _ her, but pressed against her in this moment, he’s more aware than ever. 

Her smile is all teeth when he moves to her stomach, the soft swell giving warmly against his hands. He traces the places where the skin thins into pale white, the faded stretch marks moving from her navel down to her crotch, a perfect guide that shows him where he needs to go, a ribbon to clutch onto in the dark maze, underneath her layers of skirts.

She must’ve noticed him getting more wound up, as she’s moved from his cock to trace the thatch of hair between his legs, massaging his balls in an effort to make him last. 

“‘S alright, hold on,” he pauses his movement for a moment to take her hand, places it with the other at his neck. “I want to-” he groans for a moment, his fingers touching on the rough hair between her legs,- “I don’t want to finish yet.” 

“Alright,” she breathes deeply as his fingers move between her folds, “alright.” 

She pulls him close, lets his face lean against her chest while he babbles away, “you feel so good” and “I want you” and “please,” while she kisses his head, a low groan in her throat as she rocks against his fingers. 

She’s slick against him, a wet hot furnace melting away in his hands as he does his damnedest to make her feel good. The rough of her hair moves against his palm as he massages her cunt, and he moans again as he feels moisture gather in his hand when he starts to thumb at her clit, the little nub firming under his touch. He uses his other hand to touch her labia, feels the uneven texture of the skin, and beyond, the velvet heat that leads to her opening. 

Her pace starts to quicken, and she moves to kiss him again. 

“I want to feel you against me, is that okay?”

He whines against her, his hand speeding against her cunt in desperation, “my mouth, my cock, anything.” 

  
She moves a hand alongside his between her legs, presses against it for a sweet moment before she pulls his hand away, rucks up his tunic further so that she can sit on his hips, pressing his cock between his belly and her core. 

He gasps at the contact, presses a fist against his mouth to keep his composure, only to realise it’s the very hand he’d used to touch her, and her scent fills his nose, making him buck harder against her. She grinds herself against him, watches him with a heated gaze as he sucks on his fingers while she fucks herself against his throbbing cock, smiling wider with each finger he licks clean.

“You like the taste of me?” 

He nods, face beet-red, trying to stop his moaning by licking the salt of her off of his hands. It’s proving rather unsuccessful. 

She leans forward, the angle increasing the pressure on his slick cock, and his groans get increasingly louder as she kisses him soundly, sucks on his tongue, tells him that she’s thought about having his mouth between her legs. 

“You do that thing where you,  _ ah _ , you suck the moisture from a peach as you bite into it. You’d make these wet sounds during desserts, and you’d lick your hands clean,  _ fuck _ , it was infuriating.” 

She takes a pause to suck on his neck, hard enough to bruise, and continues to fuck his cock, leaving him to gasp into the air above him. He’s leaking like a faucet, a tension forming low in his gut, his head buzzing with the scent of her sweat and slick. 

“The amount of times I’ve fucked myself against a gods-damned pillow, imagining it was your mouth instead,  _ ah _ , you don’t even know.” 

She grits her teeth then, her thighs tensing around him, pressing him further into the mattress as she shudders with a low gasp. 

The mental vision of her, frustrated, with a pillow between her thighs, mere metres away from his bed, paired with the sight in front of him, is enough to send him over the edge. He muffles a whine against her breast as he feels himself spill between them. 

She grinds against his sensitive cock another handful of times, letting them ride out their orgasms, rubbing his come into his stomach with her movements. She hugs him tightly and kisses his temple, before sitting up to properly strip off her dress. Then, she moves to take off his tunic. He tries not to balk when she uses it to wipe up the mess, but she just laughs. 

“Dearest, it was already stained.” 

She tosses away the balled-up item, and lays down next to him.

“Besides, you’re not the one who does the laundry around here.” 

He flushes as she kisses him, and tries not to think about her scrubbing the proof of what transpired here out of their clothes. 

She’s stretching languidly, cracking her shoulders as she moves her arms above her head, looking so very much at home in his bed, and he suddenly feels awkward. 

“I just wanted to say, er,” he manages, looking at her shoulder, “just to reiterate, I love you.” He’s blushing again. He can feel it, his cheeks hot. 

A hand moves his chin to meet her gaze, and her smile is like the sun. “I love you too,” and she kisses him. 

“My sweet boy, my darling, I love you too.” 

Again, again, and again.

Like a promise. 

Like an oath. 

He falls asleep there, cradled in her heavy arms, his cold nose tucked against her hot neck, his heart safe in her hands. 

Again, again, and again.


End file.
